


this is the part that hurts

by Recluse



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Almost Emotional Infidelity, Character Study, M/M, No Resolution, Other, Ten Years Later, nothing happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 16:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20474228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Recluse/pseuds/Recluse
Summary: “Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.”― Haruki Murakami





	this is the part that hurts

Alm comes in the evening.

In the ten years that have passed since the end of the gods and the beginnings of the era of man alone, he’s grown into a stalwart king, the kind Tobin knew he would be by the time they had crossed the Zofian border into Rigel all those years ago. He stands straighter than ever now, a sense of purpose that echoes with his every step. The kind that brings awe to those around him, and rightfully so. After all, how many can say they killed a god? How many can say they were prophesied to?

Few, Tobin imagines, can admit to one, let alone both. One of the many ways Alm is special.

“Tobin.” He says with a warm smile, and a particular heat spreads low in Tobin’s gut. “It’s good to see you again.”

“We see each other nearly every day, man.” Tobin answers, and as expected Alm laughs softly, an odd contrast in a man who’s so powerful elsewhere. It’s a small relief to know that despite where they’ve ended up, alone they can still return to their relationship before kingship, unbound from the duties and expectations of the court. A court in which he is the major outlier and knows it.

"Still, it's nice to just...Hang out with you again. Although I guess Gray couldn't make it?"

"Something about his kids having fevers." He shrugs, half throwing his hands up in the air with mock exasperation. "Knowing him they probably just sneezed and he panicked." 

"You know, I never expected Gray to be that kind of parent." Alm says, and Tobin snorts in response. 

"I bet once they're older he'll chill out and let them run wild, just watch. You remember when he convinced us all to try and climb on top of his house? Just to do it?"

"That was the one where you started crying halfway up, right? And then your mom heard and yelled at us. Mostly you."

He smacks Alm on the shoulder for that. Alm doesn't even flinch, eyes crinkling with mirth at the memory, and Tobin again ignores the heat that sits in the center of his chest at his smile.

His quarters are at the far end of the castle — a castle Alm gifted him four years ago, with a title to match. It had caused a bit of a stir, expectedly — of all the commoners in Alm and Celica's respective armies, only he had attained this sort of status, a title higher than knighthood. No one had outright objected, as how could they, really, but he still remembers the looks and whispers. The scorn and underhanded compliments, double-sided words they thought him too stupid to notice. It's why he stays away from most social court functions unless Alm asks him to come, because to some in the room he'll never actually be worth their time. 

He's come to accept that. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter so long as Alm trusts him to have his back and vice versa.

A servant waits by the doors to his bedroom — Roscoe — and bows low when both of them come close enough, pulling one of the doors open. Tobin's insisted that he doesn't have to be so formal, but he's always responded he does so because he likes to. Because "Sir Tobin" has earned his respect as a man who understands the common people's plight and seeks to aid them genuinely. Who doesn't hoard his wealth, but spreads it to who he can when he can, never letting them go entirely without to enjoy splendor alone.

It's funny, in a way, how strange life can be. How many turns it can take. Had he heard way back then that he would be in a castle due to Alm, he’d have probably started fighting at the idea that he was working under Alm at all.

"Could you bring us some tea?" He asks, "And maybe some pastries or...Whatever we have lying around."

He always feels strange asking for anything, but especially food. Ten years around nobility and being catered to and he still can't quite shake the feeling that he's being greedy whenever he asks for more in his own home. It's not so hard when Gray or Alm is there — especially Gray, with how much he tends not to care about court manners and all — but still, it's an old feeling, being scolded for taking too much from the table, for wanting more than his fair share. 

"Of course, sir." He answers, and if Tobin didn't know the man better he would feel mocked. That's just how Roscoe is though, at least, in all the years he's been in Tobin's service. He means it kindly. He just doesn't relax any other way. Honestly, Tobin thinks he might even find it a bit fun, acting the part of a serious servant. 

"That's new." Alm says, breaking Tobin from his thoughts, and he follows Alm's pointed finger to the landscape painting mounted on the wall. It's of Ram Village — a much busier place now, being where the hero-king once lived alongside his comrades, but still idyllic in spots that only locals would know. He had commissioned it two months ago and had received it recently, a brookside spot where they used to play when the summers were hot, hidden by trees and a little bit away from the houses and the town square. It's a good painting, soft colors and wistful in a way he likes, even though he's not usually one for art. 

"Came last week in a crate twice its size." He answers, spreading his hands wide. "Roscoe had to help me carry it up."

"You carried it?" Alm asks, mildly amused, and Tobin rolls his eyes. 

"What, his majesty can't imagine carrying a crate now?"

"I'm just surprised you couldn't do it on your own." 

Here he was, the king of all of Valentia, giving him sass. "Some of us like to be a little more careful, all right? It was expensive!"

Alm chuckles. "It's nice. It's the brook, right? Behind the abandoned storehouse? Where we used to catch tadpoles."

"Yep, that's the one." 

He gestures at the table and chairs in the room, set here specifically for today. There's a bit of a churn in his gut when he realizes that in the sunset and candlelight it almost looks—

—no, no. Nothing like. Nothing like whatever he was about to think. Nothing like that. They're two old friends having a chat. A king and one of his loyal lords. Alm and Tobin from Ram Village.

Besides, Alm's married. To Celica. A beautiful, kind, benevolent woman. A woman he's been in love with since childhood. Destined to. 

(In the back of his mind the idea of destiny is slowly taken apart. How can there be destiny when the gods themselves have died?

He doesn't let himself think on it too long. It puts things that shouldn't be there in his head.)

"So," he begins brightly, sinking into a chair, "I know I said earlier that we see each other every day, but hey, it's actually been a while since the last time we actually got to talk without some noble butting in, so what's going on?"

Alm sighs, sinking into the chair opposite to him. His good mood seems to dissipate, as well as the straightness of his posture, curling a bit to lean his elbow on the table.

"Celica and I had another argument about how to talk about Mila and Duma."

_ Ah _ , Tobin thinks, _ this again. _

In a way, it's funny to him that Alm is a slayer of gods while Celica was — still is, really — a devout worshiper of one. Having been in that room with Duma, his presence so heavy it would sometimes shake the earth they stood on, he's inclined to side with Alm in that the gods should be cautionary tales, both of them. Sure, Mila had aided them greatly, but at a time so had Duma, hadn't he? Aided the people of Rigel in his own way. And then he had gone mad. And then he had almost destroyed the world, or at least, the continent. There's no saying as to whether Mila would have eventually done the same, but he can't shake the feeling that she would have one day, somehow. That her last acts of benevolence were strokes of luck, and that had she lived even a few weeks longer, they would have needed to strike her down too. 

Then again, it's not really his place to say things like that — he was never very devout. Mila wasn't the one making sure the bugs didn't get to the lettuce before it could be harvested. She may have made it grow, but she wasn't the one doing the maintenance, making use of said bounty. He was the one picking the smallest fruit off the trees to ripen the rest, little things learned that so many of the nobility had no idea of. Especially in the harder times, when her bounty had begun to dry up. 

...And now he's missed half of Alm's words. Great.

"...I don't want her to grow up thinking Duma was evil and Mila was good when the reality is more than that."

Tobin nods as if he’s heard the whole thing. Really, he's fairly certain he already has before, so it's about the same, probably.

"She’s still a toddler, right? Seems kind of early for all of that stuff."

The royal princess — Isabelle — was a funny mix of Alm and Celica, green hair and eyes, but redder than Alm's, almost like a natural dye. Born the same year Tobin had received a title and a castle, she had absorbed much of the attention that was once on him when she was born, something he was grateful for. He didn’t see her as often as he would have liked — he was usually with Alm when he was at the capital, while she was kept deeper in the castle for safety — but then again, neither did Alm, if the way the man complained was any indication. It seemed that both he and Celica were so busy they had little time to spend with their daughter aside from some evenings, especially as the girl had grown and been able to be put with a nanny while her parents took on the challenge of ruling a barely merged country. 

It's sort of sad, honestly. He can't imagine what that's like. He had seen his family every day growing up — so often that he had gotten sick of them — but now that he's older, he cherishes the memories. The time they can't go back to, side by side with his mother at the stove top, cutting vegetables for stew.

"Five, turning six this year." Alm answers, as if Tobin would forget, and then, "She's starting with a tutor soon. Clair recommended it, and Celica agreed...I don’t think it’s a bad idea either, honestly. Just..."

He pauses. Before he can comment on it, Roscoe comes in with a tea tray, followed by a maid with a tray of pastries, savory and sweet on separate plates. They’re freshly made, the smell of butter and salt wafting warmly around them.

"Forgive us the wait." Roscoe says, and Tobin waves it off. They set everything down before Roscoe begins pouring the tea — it's still odd, being served like this — and then both turn to leave, in and out like nothing at all.

"Ah." 

Roscoe stops, turning back around, and it almost seems as though there's a gleam in his eye when he next speaks. "I nearly forgot. A letter just arrived for you, Sir Tobin."

"A letter?" He asks as Alm watches, also curious, "From who?"

Roscoe doesn't answer. Instead he pulls a letter from his pocket carefully, and it's not until he has it in hand that Tobin realizes who it's from and flushes red, though he has no chance to berate Roscoe for handing him a letter like this in front of company before the man walks out, closing the door behind him.

_ That cheeky dastard, _ Tobin thinks, and underneath that, _ does he really think Alm’s going to care? _

Tobin stares at the crisp handwriting of "My dearest Tobin" on the outside, sealed with wax. It smells vaguely of a familiar perfume. A faint memory comes to mind of a charming smile and dark hair—

—Alm clears his throat. Tobin nearly jumps into the ceiling.

"Who's it from?" He asks, knowing full well the circumstances. Being polite. Tobin thinks he must have imagined the slight strain in his voice, how Alm clutches his teacup tighter than need be.

"Ah, it's— It’s nothing to worry about. No big deal." Tobin mumbles hastily, shoving the letter into his pocket. "Just fanmail, you know. It's amazing how popular a guy can get after helping a king defeat a god."

Alm makes a noise like agreement, and thankfully that seems to be the end of his questions as he takes a sip of tea. Meanwhile, Tobin's mind wanders to the last time he saw that handwriting, two months ago when his then-tryst had left him poetry and a letter saying goodbye — a goodbye he had thought to be final.

(How the court had loved seeing him mope after that, tittering about the young man that had been his “guest” for several months. Slights of a certain kind when mentioning the young women of the court that were similar to him in one way or another. As if they hadn’t already put it all together, and what a great time that was, to be the pariah again in the middle of heartbreak—)

"From Hawke?” Alm asks suddenly, “That one...Friend of yours. From a while ago.”

Tobin flinches.

"N—" He starts, about to balk before deciding, _ fuck it _. He's twenty eight and still trying to carry a secret so open to the world that it might as well be a broken window. "—Yeah, it's from him. Probably nothing, though! Just a courtesy or something. Saying hello."

"I thought that was over." Alm says, and his tone is...Particular.

“It is.” Tobin answers, despite himself, and the room grows uncomfortably warm. He shifts in his seat.

Alm stares into him. Tobin wants to look anywhere else, tries to, fails. 

Instead, he holds Alm’s gaze, green against brown with nothing being said. Quiet enough to hear the sound of the brook, the water turning over stones, grass in the wind.

Alm grabs a pastry. Tobin does the same. Their fingers skirt past each other over the scones.

(He won't lie with a married man. He's made that clear to himself. Leon from Celica's company insists, agrees — it's never going to end well. And he values Alm's place in his life — his place in Alm's life — too much to risk changing it.

But that doesn’t stop him from wondering. Wondering if— if he had figured himself out sooner, and if Celica and Alm hadn’t immediately married after the war, and if he had acted, if he had asked, then— 

—then nothing. There’s no point in wondering, since it’s all already said and done. He’s Tobin, one of Alm’s loyalest knights, his old friend, and occasionally, his adviser when things are rough. And Alm is the king, his king, the champion of Zofia who saved them from the gods and married his childhood love, the lost princess. Who he hadn’t seen in years. Who he had been so enamored with when they had first met again that he hadn’t seen the cracks in what was once there.

What was it that Mycen said sometimes? “Youth is wasted on the young”? Tobin feels he understands the sentiment, even though he’s sure the man would scoff if he heard him say so.)

Minutes pass by them in silence.

Alm reaches forward, hesitates, and draws back. The tips of his fingers brush against Tobin’s knuckles as he does so, hot enough to sting.

He deeply wishes he were a worse man, then. Or a better one. Either.

Anything would be better than this. A bowstring pulled tight but never let go. Just held until his hands are trembling from the strain.

* * *

The next morning, Alm departs. 

“It was good seeing you again.” He says, and there’s a stiffness there that Tobin chooses to ignore. “Like this. It’s a nice break from everything else.” 

“You know it.” Tobin answers, and then, because he can’t control his stupid mouth so early in the day, “My doors are always open if you need a break, Alm.”

Alm smiles. It’s a small, worn smile, one that only comes with age. With trouble.

“I’ll remember that.” He says, and then he’s off, back to the capital, to Celica, to Isabelle, to his life.

Tobin turns back into his castle, pulling the letter from his pocket and tearing it to shreds before tossing it into the fire. He sits in the chair Alm sat in and leans back, untangling the knot in his chest. Staring at the painting. 

It’s almost as if he can hear the moment, childish laughter as they had splashed around each other catching tadpoles, staying cool during the hot days. Playing without a care in the world.

Simpler times. Simpler times.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm in a weird relationship with SOV. The game is a beautiful one, and technically I like what it's about, but I also didn't really enjoy playing it much. Part of that problem came because I never bought into the relationship between Alm and Celica -- Alm/literally any of his company makes more sense to me, with the biggest preference towards Clair, Lukas, and Tobin. But also, I can't bring myself to just ignore canon like that, and so instead I wrote...This? With almost-not-really infidelity of a sort. It's not my usual thing, but it's the only thing I can seem to reconcile with. It's...Well, again, it's a weird relationship between me and SOV.
> 
> Sorry that nothing happens and everything is awkward. I wrote this more for me than for any one else's benefit, though maybe some of you out there may like it. I don't know what exactly is going on in this fic -- it's kind of just a word vomit of me trying to sort out something. Get some practice in again, as it's been a long time since I last wrote anything of any substance. Thanks for stopping by.


End file.
